This is the all-time worst column - The Chaff with Scott Stephenson

Naa na! Na na naa na! Hey, hey, hey! The Chaff! Ladies and gentlemen, grab your popcorn, peanuts, pretzels, peaches, plums and pears. Settle in, slop down and soup yourselves up for another wild ride as we tear apart last week’s absolutely awful edition of The Chaff with all the ferocity of a rabid squirrel on a caffeine binge. Buckle up, Scott Stephenson, because your ego’s about to take a hit harder than a meteor crashing into a puppy party in paradise.

 

Let’s start with the glaringly obvious: the glorification of Mitch Hedberg’s legacy. Sure, the guy had some decent one-liners, but painting him as the comedic messiah is like putting a tiny umbrella in a puddle and calling it a swimming pool. If Stephenson says it swims, we all know it sinks and it stinks.

 

And what’s with the serendipitous “discovery” of Hedberg’s brilliance on late-night TV? Because nothing says, “I stumbled upon greatness” like casually flipping channels at 3 a.m. Please, spare us the fairy tale narrative.

 

Let’s not forget the cringe-worthy descriptions of Hedberg’s delivery and demeanour. Monotone voice and laid-back charm? That’s code for “as exciting as watching paint dry while listening to elevator music at an avant-garde art gallery presenting a pixelated picture of an elevator watching paint dry while listening to music.” And those rapid-fire one-liners? More like rapid-fire misfires that couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn if they tried. Am I right, farmers!? Barn talk!

 

And then there’s the melodramatic recounting of meeting Hedberg in person. A minivan unloading like a “real-life ‘clown car’”? Seriously, Scott? That’s about as original as a photocopy of a fax of a copy of a blank page, like in that Michael Keaton bio-pic Multiplicity. 

 

Don’t even get me started on the April Fools’ Day pity party. Talk about a buzzkill wrapped in a wet blanket. Boo hoo, ya boob!
Last week’s edition of The Chaff was like a bad stand-up routine at an empty dive bar - painful to watch and even more painful to endure. 

 

Now that we’ve danced around the campfire of Chaff criticism, let’s dive headfirst into the lake of blunders that is Scott Stephenson the person. But before we do, let’s address the elephant in the room or should we say, the date in the room? Scott, buddy, you got the date of your supposed meeting with Hedberg wrong. Oct. 12, 2005? That’s like claiming you had dinner with Abraham Lincoln last week. Zombie-Mitch Hedberg moans, “Brains are good when you are hungry and want 10,000 of something.” The actual year was 2003, fool. I would know because I was there!

 

Let’s discuss Stephenson’s writing prowess, or lack thereof. If bad writing were an Olympic sport, Scott would not be allowed to participate because he is deeply unliked. If ignorance were a crown, he’d be the reigning king, blissfully unaware of the wreckage he leaves in his wake.

 

Let’s not forget his penchant for self-indulgence. The way Stephenson fawns over Mitch Hedberg’s legacy is like a toddler clinging to a security blanket - desperate and sad. Scott, we get it, you met a famous comedian once but that doesn’t make you cool by association.

 

Stephenson’s attempts at humour are about as successful as a cat trying to sit still in a cat-pool full of Jell-O. Those kitties gonna jiggle. His jokes fall flatter than a portrait of a pancake, and his attempts at wit are like watching a sloth trying to breakdance. Am I right, sloths? Sloth talk!

 

As The Chaff celebrates its first anniversary on Sunday, it’s not a time for champagne and congratulatory pats on the back. No, dear readers, it’s a moment of reflection on the moral quagmire that is perpetuated by this publication’s continuous waste of people’s time.

 

For a full year now, The Chaff has been churning out churns that are not only churny but also downright harmful to society. In a world grappling with real issues, dedicating resources and attention to The Chaff is like throwing gasoline on a dumpster fire of intellectual laziness and creative bankruptcy.

 

Moreover, the impact of such mind-numbing content on society cannot be ignored. The normalization of The Chaff sets a dangerous precedent, lowering the bar for what passes as acceptable writing and contributing to the erosion of critical thinking and intellectual discourse.

 

Imagine the possibilities if the time and effort wasted on The Chaff were redirected towards meaningful endeavours. We could have made strides in addressing social injustices, advancing scientific discoveries or fostering creative and innovative solutions to pressing global challenges. Instead, we’re stuck in a cycle of recycled jokes, tired clichés and self-indulgent nonsense.

 

This anniversary should serve as a wake-up call, not a ‘celly’ (celebration). It’s time to demand more from our media and ourselves. We should aspire to greatness, to creativity, to thought-provoking content that challenges, inspires and ignites change.